


The Butterflies

by radtoro



Series: Something Stupid [4]
Category: GOT7
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst and Humor, Based in New York, Beta(fanfic editor)!Jinyoung, Chef!Jackson, M/M, Roommates, Slow Burn, jinyoung's pov, tattooed!Jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23767999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radtoro/pseuds/radtoro
Summary: Jackson has left for Paris, and by nature, Jinyoung misses him.[ 4 / 6 ]
Relationships: Im Jaebum | JB/Park Jinyoung, Park Jinyoung/Jackson Wang
Series: Something Stupid [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1005549
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	The Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> Guess I'll just join the club of ppl who get to finish their fanfics bc of quarantine...
> 
> In all seriousness, I rlly want to say thank you to the ppl who read this and I so so much appreciate anyone who has waited for me to update. I love you guys. I'm sorry I lost sight of this story. The ppl who have commented on this and given me kudos rlly just make my heart so full. So thanks. ^__^' Perhaps quarantine will be kind to my writer's brain.🤞
> 
> p.s. pls notify me of any spelling errors or things of the like, I literally finished this and published it at 4:35 in the morning :^D

“You seem tired,” Jackson said. His brows were pulled together with worry he shouldn’t have been harboring yet, not that early into our friendship. I was sitting with him while he waited for his coworkers of the café to finish closing. I was there to walk him home, since the subway route to our apartment still confused him. But strangely, I didn’t mind the detour to guide him home. He would always finish his work early and make the both of us hot drinks to enjoy until he could leave. I only realized later how much I cherished moments like these.

The cup of tea in front of Jackson steamed lazily, and he leaned so far over it that he barely risked spilling it. “Are you not sleeping well?”

I smiled with only my lips, at first because I was too tired to pull my cheeks back any further, and then to keep myself from giggling. At this point, I had known Jackson for barely a month, and his accent was still endearing to me, thick as honey. I was sure he had never read a book in English, either, or even a book in Chinese, for that matter. Back then, I accredited any grammatical shortcomings to not reading enough (these were my too-good-to-beta fanfiction-editor days, where I would snuff any fanfic writer away if they didn’t meet my standards).

“No,” I said, drawing it out with a sigh. The steam from my decaf coffee bowed away under my breath. “I mean, yes. I’m tired, but, I just--I’m not doing what I want to do?”

His brows stayed furrowed as he processed my sentence. “Then... What do you want to do?”

I licked my bottom lip, gaze on my mug, on my hands around it. “I went to college for English, to be an editor. I just,” I rolled my eyes, “I don’t belong at a Build-A-Bear, where the most I get to do with words is improvising where the kids rub the heart and what trait it gives the bear.” I rubbed my face, then took a sip of my coffee. It was a little bitter for my taste, but I didn’t mind.

“You do what to the kids?”

“Nevermind,” I said. “Just--I want to do what I went to college for. Which is editing.” I kept myself from talking about beta-ing, knowing that he wouldn’t understand it--mostly because there’s always a piece of me that’s a little embarrassed by my involvement with fanfic, but also in part because I was pretty sure “fanfic” didn’t translate.

Jackson nodded and then sipped his tea. “Well...” He puckered his lips and shrugged. “Are you _looking_?”

I glanced up from my coffee, brow raised just slightly. “For what?”

He raised his eyebrows like it was obvious. “For what you want. You won’t find it if you’re not looking.”

I crinkled my nose. “Isn’t it the opposite? That it’ll come to me if I’m _not_ looking?”

He was shaking his head before I finished my sentence. “No, no, no, Jinyoung, no.” He said my name with a full, traditional accent: _Jiin-Young_ , thick on the “Young.” “When you lose your keys, do you wait for them to grow legs and find _you_? No! When you go to the store, do you wait for your grocery list to fly into the cart? No!” He muttered what I assumed was an insult in Cantonese, then clicked his tongue. “You have to _go after_ what you want, chase it down like-like--ah. Like the bird chases the early worm.”

I nearly laughed but was too miserable--and insulted by whatever he may or may not have called me--to even grin. I sighed. “That’s-That’s not...”

Jackson’s cheeks rounded out in a grin, brows high, pointing his index and middle fingers at me. “See? You know I’m right.” He sipped his tea and tapped his temple. “Nobody gets a job without sending a resumé.”

My neck and ears warmed to an embarrassed, pissed-off pink. I hated being told when I was wrong, _especially_ when it was well-deserved. He looked so smug and righteous, amplified by my own young, narcissistic habits, my old self-righteous mindset. Jackson was-- _is_ \--the reason I’ve become so humble, the only reason I’m considered bearable by anyone. But at this point, I had no idea about any of this. I was just beginning to think the guy I moved in with was an arrogant asshole, _even though he was right_. (God, I hate me from two years ago).

I groaned and dipped my head. “I just--there are programs that I entered and hoops to jump through and--” I sighed. I didn’t even sound convincing to myself. The petty anger underneath my skin made me feel like I was throwing a tantrum, which shut my mouth effectively.

“You’re... comfortable.” Jackson tilted his head. “You have your okay job and your books and your English that you do on your phone all the time.” He put his hand over mine, sweet enough that it didn’t make me angrier, but still too far past a line that it didn’t put me at ease. “You’re comfortable. But good things only happen when-when--” he shook his head “-- _after_ you get butterflies. When you’re _un_ comfortable.” He patted my hand. “Okay? You need to,” he waved his hand in circles, “you know, try something new. Find something to edit, somewhere new to do it. Somewhere to start a-fresh.”

I inhaled. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“You need to find something new. You know, start a-fresh.”

I laughed once. “’A-fresh?’”

Jackson nodded, innocent. “Yeah. Like when you start over.” He gasped, suddenly bringing his hand to cover his mouth, fingertips touching his lip. “Was that not right?”

I laughed. Oh, I laughed so hard. That was the funniest, most genuinely innocent phrase I’d ever heard. I laughed so hard that my arm nearly knocked my coffee over when I leaned on the table for support. Jackson furrowed his brows, smiling through it. He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, an endeared grin on his cheeks as I finally cranked it down to a chuckle.

“I like your laugh,” he said.

I laughed once, smothering it with a closed mouth as I dried the droplets of coffee I spilled. “Really?” I said, not hiding my tone of self-loathing. I’d always hated my laugh, my smile too, for that matter. My cheeks get too big and my eyes crinkle in the ugliest way, the volume of it combining into a result that is just all wrong.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling still. “I never heard you laugh that hard before.” He scrunched up his shoulders and smiled with his eyes. “I like it.”

And it amazed me--as it does now--that the heat from the petty tantrum I felt like throwing vanished. I folded my arms, mirroring him, and let myself laugh once more without showing my teeth. For a guy that I had decided I hated a moment ago, I could see him sticking around for much, much longer. And I saw myself not minding, if he kept doing things like this.

It’s a cold evening, the sun long since set, and the park path we walk upon is littered with crunchy, contorted leaves. If I were walking with Jackson instead of Jaebum, we’d be purposefully stomping them and groaning in satisfaction, sticking to the pools of them gathered along the edges of the walkway. An activity I hadn’t known before Jackson had inspired it, now an impulse. I step on them now as they happen to be in my footpath, but I don’t seek the hearty crunch of the piles, both from fear of Jaebum’s judgement and for the sake of Jackson not being here to share it.

Jaebum’s hand is warm and strong, entwined with mine and tucked into his jacket pocket. It’s unusually cold for November, which is a surprise coming off a warm October, but pleasant all the same, because:

  1. I get to wear the sweaters that most of my wardrobe consists of,
  2. Jaebum holds me closer with the excuse of body heat, and
  3. Christmas fics are just around the corner. My inbox is about to be filled with miles of fluff.



Jaebum sighs, his breath a vanishing cloud before us, and squeezes my hand. His gaze traces the lines of the trees, then jumps to a bicyclist pedaling by, watching until he’s past us. It reminds me of _Friends_ , when Phoebe didn’t know how to ride a bike, and of Jackson, who has laughed himself to tears watching the show. Given, most of those times we were both tipsy, but they’re good memories nonetheless.

He’s already left for Paris. He and Mark got on a plane a few mornings ago, a straight shot from Newark to Charles de Gaulle. Once he was through security, he had texted me, and once he landed, he called. He’s practically nocturnal in comparison to France’s time zone, so I set an alarm after we hung up to give him wake-up calls, just in case both he and Mark are too jet-lagged.

God, just thinking about Jackson makes me crave his presence. I keep thinking about what he would do if he were here, what he would laugh at, what he would say to get me laughing too. I can’t believe I already miss him.

Jaebum shivers, grips my hand tighter, and makes a _brr_ noise. “I’m _freezing_.” He glances at me and laughs. “Are you?”

I nod, then lean my head on his shoulder. “Let’s go get hot chocolate.”

He grins at me. “Good idea.”

The restaurant we end up in has a mom-and-pop feel to it, focused on southern hospitality, and features breakfast all day, which is beyond tempting. Half the servers speak with a charming southern accent and grin at us with motherly tilts of their heads. There are different pieces of music memorabilia on the walls: framed pictures of Elvis, framed vinyl records and 45s, and a signed guitar near the front. Most of the walls and furniture are natural wood or made to look like it. It makes the place smell woodsy, an undertone of the varnish from the tables. A fireplace burns near the entrance to the kitchen, keeping everyone cozy. I would’ve liked to sit there, but it’s packed. I can’t blame them.

Jaebum's eyes roam the walls as he pulls his gloves off slowly. “Cute place, huh?”

I nod, glancing around the room. “Yeah,” I nod. “It feels... Home-y.”

He grins, eyes crescent moons and teeth bared. “Exactly. It reminds me of college.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, “I went to school in Memphis, Tennessee. They really mean it when people talk about southern hospitality.”

Our waitress then arrives and takes our order for hot chocolate, then offers a dessert menu, sensing that we’re on a date. It’s a bit nosy of her, but I smile and nod in thanks.

Once the waitress has left, I ask, “Why did you study so far south?”

Jaebum doesn’t look up from the dessert menu, dark, sleek eyes scanning it as he speaks. “It’s one of the music capitals of the world.”

“Not just for country music?”

“No, no.” He sets the menu down. “ _Nashville_ is the heart of country. But Memphis--that’s where blues lives. That’s the city that taught me what _soul_ in music was.”

“You make it sound so magical,” I say, leaning my chin on my fist.

“Back then, when I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, yeah, it was. And, I mean, it still is sometimes, but... I constantly analyze _every_ _song_ I hear now. I don’t just _enjoy_ music like I used to, I have to know the chord progression or the technique or the software.” He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, then holds a hand out. “I guess you can relate. It’s like, you know, you can’t just read a book or a news article or something anymore. You always have that little editor turned on in the back of your head that’s like, _Could that sentence have been worded better? Are they using that word too much?_ ”

I laugh. “That is... _painfully_ accurate.”

“Right?” Jaebum says, grinning. “That’s why whenever some kid is like ‘I wanna be a sound guy!’ I’m like, ‘no, don’t ruin it for yourself! Don’t turn out like me!’”

As we laugh, our cocoa is brought to us. Jaebum lets her take the dessert menu away.

“You know,” I say, “now that I’m thinking about it, Jackson does stuff like that every time we eat out. He has to talk to the servers about what stove they use or what the secret ingredient is, even though he always insists it’s sugar or cinnamon.” I imitate his accent: “‘It’s the oldest trick in the book, I won’t let them get away with it.’”

Jaebum lets out a chuckle that’s quieter than its successors. “Yeah. Everyone can relate.”

I nod and sip the cocoa. It tastes about how hot chocolate tastes; it’s nothing special. But Jaebum closes his eyes when he drinks, then hums after he swallows, and it makes me feel like I didn’t try hard enough to like it. I take another sip to see if I taste cinnamon.

“So he’s in Paris now,” Jaebum says.

“Jackson? Yeah.” I set my mug down. “He and his other chef friend landed Tuesday. They’re totally jet-lagged.”

“How bad is the time difference?” Jaebum sips form his mug.

“Just four hours. But Jackson sleeps like a teenager on summer break; he’s practically nocturnal over there.” I laugh as I bring my mug to my lips, making the cocoa ripple.

Jaebum smiles with some sort of resignation. “You miss him already, don’t you?”

I laugh, dipping my head and keeping my eyes on the table. “Yeah. I’m sorry for talking about him so much. Tonight is supposed to be about us.”

He shakes his head. “No, no it’s okay. You guys are close.” He sips his cocoa. “How long have you known each other?”

I exhale, knowing I should push to move on from the subject, but I don’t. “Coming up on two years,” I say. “Seems like longer, though.” I go for another sip, shaking my head. “God, it feels like I’ve known him for _lifetimes_ , the asshole.” I chuckle. “Did I ever tell you how we met?”

“I don’t think you did,” Jaebum says.

I laugh. “Well, it was just after we had graduated from college. I needed a roommate badly, and before I met Jackson, I was, to put it simply, an asshole. And being the asshole that I was, I constantly bitched to my sister about how much I hated my roommate.” I count on my fingers: “How he didn’t clean the sink when he shaved, that he didn’t pick up groceries, you know,” I wave my hand, “whatever it was that day. So she, being far kinder than I was, set me up with Jackson, who was her coworker at the time. They worked in a café, her as a server and he as a barista and panini-presser.

“She told me I could come in any day I had off to meet him. What’s funny is that she was really adamant about getting me to come in because, as I would later find out, Jackson bitched to her about needing a roommate the same amount that I did.” We laugh. “On the day I finally came in, though, Jackson had a bet going with one of the other waitresses. They were switching their roles as server and chef. And--I forgot to mention—this was a cat café. And not just one that had cupcakes with ears on them and a few kittens mulling around.”

Jaebum winces. “Ooh.”

I laugh once. “Yeah. All the waitresses—and they _had to be_ waitresses—had to wear maid costumes that were short, short, short, and cat ears.” I chuckle. “So, when I walked in, I was greeted by my sister, handed a drink by a distressed barista, then sat down, and when I asked about the man I was supposed to be meeting that day, my sister merely pointed behind me. ‘Here he comes!’

“And what else could I do but stare? He was wearing his coworker's outfit and it was so short you could see his boxer briefs when he turned around. He was as buff then as he is now and just filled out the thing, nearly ripping the seams in the chest. When he saw me staring, he came up to the table, grinning, and said, ‘The skirt is supposed to be this short.’”

Jaebum and I laugh. “Wow,” he says. “Talk about a first impression.”

“I know,” I say. “I hoped that I would never have to see him again, if you can believe it. But now...”

“Yeah,” Jaebum finishes for me. He looks away and at the wall, sipping his cocoa.

“Yeah,” I say, knowing that I should apologize for gushing about Jackson. The past two arguments we’ve had have been about it--or spurred on by the tense energy that is a byproduct of it--and if I weren’t so stubborn, I would own up to it and say what needs to be said. But I don’t. I let the tension rise, like our table is a boat and the atmosphere around us is an ever-churning ocean. If Jaebum wants to be pissed off and jealous, let him, because my best friend is gone for two weeks and might not stay when he returns. I deserve to tell a story or two.

Jaebum’s gaze roams the memorabilia, doing a poor job of covering his pensive expression. He glances back at me, straight, black, shiny hair cut sharp just below his eyebrows. His gaze softens to a shade similar to thoughtful. He searches my face for something that I am unable to give him. The boat keeps rocking, settling on a spin.

“Let’s go to the club,” he says. “Once we’re finished here.”

“Okay,” I say. “Why?”

“I feel like dancing tonight.” He slips his hand over mine on the table. “And I want to be close to you, want to feel you next to me while we’re moving to the beat.” He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead with one finger. “I want to get you so drunk on my touch that nothing else crosses your mind.”

I almost fall for that. Almost. And I’m almost naïve enough to consider he might not be covering a passive-aggressive motive. Once I see through it, it’s almost comical how thick he’s laying it on. And it’s shameful how I naturally react: a mirror of his own infuriating behavior.

“Sounds wonderful,” I purr, because if we’re playing a game tonight, then so be it, and if it leads to an angry fuck, it won’t be the first time I’ve done it. “But let us see that dessert menu again before we go.”

“Do I want pizza or sandwiches? Or Chinese again?” Jackson stood in the kitchen, leant on the countertop, chin perched on his fist. I was sat in the floor by the coffee table, folding his laundry so he could pack for Paris, and he was _supposed_ to be packing it as I did this, but it wasn’t happening.

I stretched and sat up tall to peek at him over the couch. I sighed, grievously going back to folding his clothes. “You already had your post-workout shake, Jackson. If you eat anything, you’ll negate the last hour of push-ups you made me watch.” He ignored me, continuing to look through our cabinets for a snack. “You need to pack, for one, and for two, you need to save your money for Paris.”

Jackson pulled out his phone, pursing his lips in thought. “I finally got that Waitr thing and I could literally get anything. I could get...” He quirked a brow. “ _Fancy_ pizza. ... _Fancy_ sandwiches.”

I plucked a long-sleeve shirt out of the warm basket. “You’re a chef, dumbass. You can cook here, for us, and it would be just as good.”

“I need to save my good food for Paris,” he said, like his flawed logic was perfectly obvious. “I only have so many five-stars in me. I need a re-charge time.”

I exhaled, kneeling up so I could give him a full view of my puppy-dog eyes. “What if I wanted to eat your food one more time before you left?”

Jackson scoffed without looking up from his phone. “Fatass. You only want me to cook because you’re too lazy to do it yourself, Mr. Pinch-a-Penny.” He scrolled through his phone, then tilted his head. “How about vegetarian food tonight?”

I huffed and went back to folding. “Great,” I deadpanned. “Now I’ll have to eat something that tastes like grass served over undercooked rice, with you in the background nagging about how healthy it is so I ‘can’t complain.’”

His head whipped up to face me, mouth an ‘O’ around a gasp. “It _is_ healthier! Tsk. This is why I called you a fatass. I guess Chinese food it is.”

I groaned, finally throwing the shirt down. “If you’re gonna order Chinese, then make it yourself so I don’t have to hear _you_ complain about how ‘unauthentic’ it is.” I stood, folding my arms.

He put his phone down. “Why do you have it in your head that I have something to complain about every time we eat take-out together?”

“Because you do!”

He laughed once. “You’re no better; you critique cereal boxes for fun. Grandpa.” He picked his phone back up. “Do you want pizza or not?”

“Fuck you!” I laughed. “If I say yes and you order it, will you come over here and pack for your own damn self?”

“No, but its worth a try.” He grinned, the tip of his tongue poking out, as he brought the phone to his ear.

I scoffed. As much as I wanted to laugh, I wanted to choke him half to death. “Who the fuck are you calling?”

Jackson didn’t answer me, placing his order instead. He turned his back to me, his only tattoo peeking over the neck of his black tank-top. It was a drunk tattoo he got in college, that read in bold lettering, “ **MADE IN CHINA**.” It made me laugh every time I saw it.

He hung up with a sigh. “Okay,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “ _Now_ I can pack.”

“If I had known that all it took to get you packing was pizza, I would've ordered it a long time ago.” I stack another folded shirt onto the pile I'd made.

Jackson kneeled on the other side of the coffee table and began to roll up his clothes and tuck them into his suitcase. With a laugh, he said, “You should know by know that food is the only true way to persuade me.”

“’The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ kinda jazz?” I asked, marrying two socks.

“Precisely,” he said. Then, for a minute, we were quiet as he packed. Methodically, he rolled something and tucked it away, rolled and tucked, rolled and tucked, all the while silent. _Silent_. Something that Jackson, of all people, never was.

“Jackson,” I said with a tilt of my head. “Are you nervous?”

He sighed. “How could you tell?”

“You worked out twice as long as I did tonight, you ordered two large pizzas--which you know neither of us can eat--and now you’re quietly pouting when I finally get you to pack.”

He remained quiet, lips pursed in defeat.

“Why are you nervous, Jackson?”

He exhaled. “It’s... It’s so strange. I’ve always wanted this chance. Ever since I was a kid and made my mom order from my little home-made menu so I could cook it. This dream, it brought me to New York. It drove me to this edge where all I have to do is jump off and fly, but... I’m scared. Jinyoung-ah, I don’t understand it but suddenly... I’m scared. I don’t know if I can fly.”

I leant back on the couch, head tilted. “Jackson, wasn’t it you who told me that the good things only happen after you get butterflies?”

He let out a single laugh, then looked up at me with a smile. “Yeah...”

“Then take it from somebody who made that jump because of you;” I planted my hand on his shoulder; “you’re not scared and you’re not nervous. Those butterflies mean that you’re excited. You’re buzzing with anticipation for what’s to come. And don’t have a single doubt in your mind that you can do this. Because you can. You have! And you will.”

He covered his face with his hands. “Jinyoungie, you’re gonna make me cry!”

I patted his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

He crawled around the coffee table to sit next to me and settled his head on my shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you for believing in me. I-I just can’t help but feel the pressure. This whole opportunity rides on how well I do there.”

“The pressure is a good thing,” I told him. “Like rush hour at the sushi bar or going from lifting twenty-five pound weights to lifting thirty. The pressure is good.”

He sniffled, draping an arm over my torso in a make-shift hug. “Why can’t I take you with me?” he whined. “I wish I had a pocket-sized Jinyoung to sit on my shoulder and say that shit all of the time.”

I laughed. “I’m just a phone call away, Jackson.” I removed his hand from my waist. “And it’s only two weeks.”

“For now,” he said, head still resting on my shoulder. “If everything goes well, then it’s... forever? For as long as I’m the head chef there. My whole life is about to change. And yours, too.” He sat up and locked eyes with me, cheeks wet with tears. “You should start looking for a new roommate.”

I exhaled. “Fuck. You’re right.”

“Maybe you should ask your boyfriend,” Jackson said, eyes dead set on the coffee table.

“Don’t be ridiculous, we’ve only been dating for two months. Barely.”

“Well, then at least sleep at his place until I’m back. Or let him sleep here.”

“We haven’t even fucked yet. He wouldn’t--I just--” I exhaled. “Let me worry about that while you’re in Paris. For right now, let’s just pack and play some music or something.”

Jackson nodded silently for a few seconds before he asked, “Are things okay between you and Jaebum?”

“...Yeah. Why?”

“You don’t talk about him as much. And you change the subject when I bring him up.”

“Oh, uh.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I guess I didn’t notice.” That was a lie. I kept from talking about Jaebum for this exact reason: Jackson gets weird and protective.

“Uh-huh,” he said, unconvinced. He crawled back over to continue packing.

“There’s just... nothing to tell, I guess. Nothing you haven’t already heard.” Which was also a lie. Jaebum had started ignoring me or being cold when he would see Jackson on my Snapchat or when I would mention him in a passing text. You know, petty stuff. It felt silly to be worked up over text messages, especially since everything went great whenever we met up in person. And I didn’t want to complain because I particularly didn’t want to hear, “You should break up with him,” like I had heard with my last boyfriend so often. It didn’t matter if it was good advice. Hearing it so often makes me stop hearing it. And I want to hear it when it matters.

“Okay...,” he sighed. “If you say so.” He stops rolling up a shirt. “I just... I get worried. In the beginning, you were so happy and he felt so right for you, but now, you lie to me about how it’s going. And I’m about to leave for two weeks...” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I want you to be happy. And if he’s not giving that to you, I can’t help but feel... protective?”

“Jackson, it’s fine. We’re fine.” I grin. “Just let me enjoy your company without having to take dating advice, okay?”

He scoffed, barely hiding a smile. “Ah, my dating advice isn’t _that_ bad!”

“It is when we’re sober,” I said. We laughed.

He settled into a serious tone. “I mean what I said, though. You deserve to be happy. And I deserve to be the shoulder you cry on when he doesn’t give you that.”

I laughed once, rolling my eyes. “Thanks.”

He shrugged, then rolled and tucked away his clothes until the pizza came.

We stay in the country café until past close, only leaving when the waitresses start sweeping and glancing over too often. Jaebum grips my hand once we’re outside, sticking our hands back in his pocket all the way to the subway station. We hop on for a few stops, then walk the rest of the way to the night club. It’s one of the bigger ones, so it’s a little bit busy this early. Jaebum orders our drinks and we stand nervously against the wall, sipping, people-watching.

He pulls me to the middle of the dance floor when a club remix he likes comes on, and so, we dance. He does simple things that get sexier the more drinks I have and eventually, just looking at the shape of his body gets me turned on. And I can see that he is, too, by the way he grips at my clothes and presses against me. But we don’t leave except to get another drink, not until the club is so packed that we can’t tell if it’s each other that’s touching us or another clubgoer.

We sit in the empty subway cart, hands discreetly wandering and teasing, like we can’t wait to get back to my apartment. It brews the strangest buzz in my gut: dread and lust, excitement but with a healthy dose of trepidation. I brush it off. Maybe my drinks are mixing wrong in my stomach.

We stumble up to the door of my apartment, but we’re not giggling and stealing kisses like I had imagined months ago, when the idea of dating Jaebum was a fantasy. He keeps his hand on me in some way, and it makes my skin tingle with anticipation, but it feels obligatory and just a little bit cold. There’s no passion behind it or love in his eyes. The subtlest hint of intuition whisper from the back of my head that I’ll regret this when it’s done and over with. Maybe that’s why my stomach is churning and my thoughts are storming. Impending doom.

I get my key in the lock and he turns me around and pins me against the door with a kiss, then opens it. Once we’re in and it gets kicked closed behind us, I pull away.

“Jackson?” I call out, eyes still closed. I open them, glancing over the living room. It’s empty, save an older pair of Jackson’s work shoes and an abandoned laundry basket. My tipsy brain then recalls helping him pack Monday night.

“Whoops...” My feet take me further into the living room. “Forgot he left.”

Jaebum shuts my mouth with his and hastily pulls at my clothes. “Forget about him completely. C'mon.” I gasp when my back hits the wall outside my room. “Don’t tell me he’s still on your mind when I’ve got you feeling like this.” He presses into me, and I can feel every curve and edge of him, his thigh hiked up between mine and his teeth on the other side of his lips. I grapple for the doorknob to my room and twist it open. We stumble to the bed, pulling off belts and pushing off jackets, somewhere in there my back hits the mattress and Jaebum crawls over me.

…And that’s when everything turns into noises and hands and spit and teeth, hungry and just barely pent-up. We’re burning through each other too fast for it to be really _good_ , for me to see stars and scream, but I’ve been too obsessed with the idea of this moment to ruin it for myself. So I squeeze my eyes closed and focus on his heat and hands and skin, then turn over so I’m on top, and I look at him, Hot and Ready like Little Caeser's. He grins, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. The cocky part of me wants to say that he looks wrecked already, but truthfully, he grins like a devil, like _he’s_ about to wreck _me_ , and my eager counterparts like that story a lot better.

I devour his mouth in another kiss. A dull sound cuts through the high-tension air, and something lights up my dresser. I sit up and look over.

My phone is abuzz in my pants where they lie in the floor. An alarm is going off, an annoying tune that reminds me so much of being woken up that it fatigues me.

“The fuck...?” Jaebum mutters.

I climb off his lap and stand, then fish it out of my pocket. The screen is bright to my lust-heavy eyes, especially after I mute it and unlock it.

“The fuck is that alarm for?” he asks.

“Jackson,” I say. “I need to call him and wake him up.” I load up my call app, his name the first on the ‘speed dial.’

Jaebum sighs. “Can’t it wait?” he asks. “Just for a few minutes.”

I look at him, sitting up in my bed, hair mussed and cheeks flushed. My hand itches to hit the green phone icon next to Jackson’s picture. I squint back at it. “I’m sorry. I have to do this.” Before I can hear or see a reaction, I get up and step out into the hallway.

I pace forward, holding my breath every time the dial tone stops. I get a shiver as the line is finally picked up.

“What, what, Jinyoung, are you okay?” is what Jackson answers with. I laugh once. Even stretched by distance and pixelated, his voice warms me up.

“Yes, I’m good,” I say. “I’m just giving you your wake-up call.”

He sighs and I hear him flop back onto his bed, making a big fuzzy noise in my ear. “God, I was scared for a second. I thought something was wrong.”

“No,” I say. “Just making sure you and Mark aren’t tardy to your first menu test.”

“Ugh, God, don’t make me nervous,” he says, then chuckles and makes a stretching noise. “And go back to sleep. I’m up now, thanks to the heart attack you just gave me.”

I laugh and shake my head. “Yeah, okay. Get Mark up, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” A smile is all over his voice. “I’ll text you when you’re awake again. I love you.”

“Love you too,” I say. “Bye.”

“Bye.” And he hangs up.

I look at my phone for a second before I lock it. A picture of me and Jackson smiles back at me. It was taken at the cat café, so we both look a little brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed. I remember when it was taken. My sister wanted something nice to send to our mom when she’d found out I got a new roommate, and that the roommate had been the much-discussed, panini-presser Jackson. My sister had held up my phone and Jackson wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squished his cheek against mine. She took the picture mid-laugh.

When I enter my room again, Jaebum is sat on the bed, dressed. I say nothing, brow furrowed and mouth open.

He sighs. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell this out for you.” He picks his gaze up from the floor and bores it into me, dejected and disappointed and tired.

“What? What do you mean?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Don’t play fucking dumb.”

“I’m not. I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about. Why are you dressed?”

“Because I’m leaving.” He stands from my bed. He’s barely an inch taller than me, pausing, close enough to brush my shoulder as he walks out, only to say, “I don’t play second fiddle.”

I turn around and follow him out. “Don’t tell me you’re on about the Jackson thing again.”

He halts, then exhales. He turns his head just enough to speak over his shoulder. “Yeah. I am.”

“Look, I get that you’re jealous--”

“I’m not jealous!” He turns around to face me. “I know the truth! He’s in love with you and you are with him! I don’t know if you’re just too dense to notice all this, but it’s blatantly obvious to _everyone_ else.”

My stomach drops. “What do you mean? Where are you getting this from?”

“On Halloween. When you were pissed at me for talking to Jackson. I saw how he is around you, and, _God_ , only an idiot wouldn’t be able to notice how much he adores you. He fessed up right then and there at the bar. He’s loved you since you met. How much of a dumbass does that make you? God! And even after all that, how he spoils you and touches you and is under your skin and on your mind all the Goddamn time, you don’t realize that you love him back!” He runs a hand through his hair and groans in exasperation. “For fuck’s sake, you have an alarm saved for _2 o’clock AM_ to call him and wake him up.”

“He’s my best friend! I can’t believe you would accuse me of cheating on you!”

“You dumbass! I’m not saying you’re cheating on me! I’m telling you that you love him back and you’re too dense to realize--” He cuts himself off with an exhale, holding a hand up and closing his eyes. “You know what? Fuck this.” He rips the door open, but turns back for some final words. “I don’t know why I even _fucking_ tried to get through to you. Open your eyes! I don’t even wanna know what other issues you have if you can’t even realize you’ve been in love with someone for two years. Fuck.”

The door slams shut behind him, taking all the air with it. Silence rings in my ears.

I turn around, arms folded. What an asshole. What kind of a guy projects his own insecurities onto someone so badly that he weaves up a story like that? And Jackson is always flirtatious, with everyone. He’s just comfortable with me. He’s my best friend. My best friend!

I huff and sit on the couch. “He’s my best friend.” My gaze angrily rakes over the room as my thoughts buzz about. They settle on the laundry basket, which I’ve been too lazy to move since I helped Jackson pack for France. A plush character made to look like pop-corn sits atop the decided-against clothing, staring blankly happy at the TV. I bought him that when we were out one day because he thought it was adorable. Just because. He wanted to bring it as a pillow, but I insisted it wouldn’t fit in his suitcase. Usually, he keeps it in his bed.

So, I stand up and retrieve the little guy. We never settled on a name for him, always jumping from Pop-Corn-Chan to Pop-Senpai, to O’ Cornelius Pop the Great. I take him to Jackson’s room and set him on the made bed, right in front of the other pillows.

It smells like him in here. My buzzed, drained, shot, writer’s brain tries to come up with a way to describe his pheromones, but to no avail. It’s just _him_ , something that has come to feel more like home than anywhere else, than any _one_ else.

I sit on the bed. It’s soft and cold. In the back of my mind I remember that I’m only in my boxers, but the front just searches for words like it’s all I have left. Is there a better word for how much I miss him already? I miss him more than I’ll miss Jaebum. I lay down. It feels like it’s spinning. Tears start leaking from my eyes, but I don’t feel upset. What is the word for this?

The alcohol in my system keeps poisoning me the more my blood settles. I begin to fall asleep. Jaebum’s voice swims around me groggily, like how my bloodstream feels. His words start to make sense. My brain loses that track of thought right before I fall asleep.

“I love you,” someone in my dream said, on a balcony, tipsy then as I’m tipsy now. “I love you,” he said, open and sweet. “You,” he said, when I asked if he believed in soulmates. “I love you,” before he hung up the phone and, “I love you,” before he left to get eggs for pancakes. “I love you,” I said in the meanest way. “He’s my best friend,” I said, because I didn’t know how deep it truly ran. “You’re the brother I never had,” I said so quickly, so cruelly. I didn’t know better. “Dumbass,” I said, but he knew what I meant. “I love you,” he said before he left to catch his plane. “Go before I start missing you,” is what I had meant to say, but, “You, too,” was all that came out, mumbled over my morning tea. I never liked tea before he came into my life. I never chased what I wanted. I never laughed without feeling insecure. I never loved somebody. Not like I love him. I...

...I love him. Fuck.


End file.
